Sherlock the Cat
by ijustwanttobeabritishman
Summary: While chasing an alleged magician, Sherlock is turned into a cat. Of course, then he does what Sherlock would do and dissapears. Continuation of MildredTheFreak's story. Warnings inside. Genres will change by chapter.
1. Chapter 1

The first three chapters of this story belong to MildredTheFreak, who has been kind enough to grant me permission to continue her story. I don't own the plot of the first three chapters, nor do I own Sherlock. Sorry this took so-fucking-long to get up. It's been really complicated and I have a hard time organizing things T.T

So… here's Sherlock the Cat.

o0o0o

"Hurry, John!" cried Sherlock, as he, John and Lestrade tore after the suspect, a man who was involved in a secret "cult" that performed dark magic. Lestrade was desperately lagging behind, but Sherlock was gaining on the man, who was wearing a prominent black cloak which billowed out behind him. John skidded round a corner, and saw Sherlock ahead cornering the suspect at a dead end.

The man was panicking, and his glittery eyes caught John's just as Sherlock was about to jump on him. There was an almighty bang, and a huge explosion of red smoke, which filled the narrow alleyway, blinding John.

"Sherlock!" cried John, coughing, as the strange red smoke filled his lungs. It smelled of burning rubber, and was rather thick. "Sherlock!" he yelled again, before covering his mouth and nose, squinting through the scarlet smog, but seeing nothing.

"John?" It wasn't Sherlock- it was Lestrade, who had finally caught up. "Where are you?"

"Here!" yelled John, coughing some more. "It's too thick! I can't see a thing."

He staggered in the opposite direction, towards Lestrade's voice, until the smoke was thin enough to see in.

"What is this?" asked John, rubbing at his watering eyes.

Lestrade shrugged. "He's a magician. It's probably some fancy trick he has. Is Sherlock in there?"

John nodded, anxiously looking through the fog for any sign of a shadow. It was clearing away now, the red rising upwards in undulating spirals.

"Sherlock?" called John again, but there was no response.

Lestrade started forward, as the smoke became thinner, and John followed, searching for his friend.

"He's gone!" Lestrade said confusedly.

"Sherlock, or the suspect?" John asked.

"Both!" Lestrade looked utterly perplexed. "There's no way out from here. We would have seen them, if he were to escape!"

John spun around, looking for a way the man and Sherlock could have broken away to. His eyes zeroed on a mass on the ground, and he went towards it.

"This is Sherlock's coat!" John exclaimed, bending down. The red smoke was barely a mist now. He reached out, and saw it wasn't just the huge coat, but also what John assumed to be pretty much everything Sherlock was wearing.

"What the hell?" Lestrade muttered incredulously, crouching down next to John. He moved the pile of clothes around, trying to see if anything had been dropped with them, like a sign or a symbol that could explain why the man had disappeared, yet all his clothes were left behind.

A tiny, indistinct and muffled "Mew!" came from under the material.

Lestrade shot John a shocked and confused look, before John pulled the clothes apart. Lying under Sherlock's discarded shirt was a dishevelled, bemused looking kitten, about the size of John's hand.

"Oh. My. God," breathed John. No. No way. This was impossible. Absolutely impossible.

It was a dark, navy blue colour, with the exception of one blindingly white paw. Its eyes were a rather recognisable pale, pale blue, and they held a look in them as if to say _What the hell is going on?_

"Dear god," Lestrade said, his eyes wide, and his jaw slack. "Is this-? Has he-?" He seemed to be finding it hard to form a sentence, and John mirrored his feelings, his eyes trained on the round ball of fluff that appeared to be his flatmate.

"Mew!" wailed the kitten, the sound a high squeak, as he rolled up onto his feet, and padded the floor, which was the trousers, experimentally. It was an undeniably cute action.

"Do you think the magician did this?" John whispered to Lestrade.

Lestrade looked at him with a clueless expression. "It must have been. But that's impossible! You can't turn people into domestic animals!"

They both turned back to Sherlock, who was picking up the material of the trousers with his soft claws, and releasing it, watching it fall back down, then pulling it up again. He looked intrigued, if a cat _could_look intrigued. Clearly Sherlock could pull off an interested look, even when he was covered in fur.

"Apparently you can," John said, utterly transfixed by the miniature creature in front of him.


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade stood, causing the kitten, _Sherlock, _great alarm, who jumped, and darted back under the shirt in panic. His tail poked out from his hiding place. John chuckled, and reached out, pulling the shirt off his flatmate, and watched Sherlock look around. He stretched a finger out and stroked the kitten from his head down his body, smiling as Sherlock stretched out, giving a soft "Mew."

Lestrade took a deep breath. He wasn't up to this- people turning into animals. The worst thing was, it seemed, that the suspect had completely disappeared. And turned one of his best workers into a baby cat, having buggered off to god knows where.

"John, we need to find the man. He did this, he can reverse it."

John looked up from Sherlock, who was licking his white paw slowly. "Where do we look?"

Lestrade had no answer. "I don't know."

They both looked back to the cat, who paused his licking to give them a reproachful look.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade said tentatively. "Do you understand?"

John laughed at their situation. They were talking to a cat, who was also Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock looked at them, with his big blue eyes. Lestrade sighed. "I'll take it as a no."

John was suddenly very worried. What if they never turned him back? His friend was effectively gone. What would he do? What would Mycroft say?

"John, I suggest you go home. I also suggest you take...him, with you," Lestrade said wearily. "I'll call you tomorrow, and we can start searching for the magician."

John nodded, and stood also. At this, Sherlock gave a loud "Meeeoooow!" which was singularly the most pathetic noise John had heard in a while. He looked down at the kitten, who was looking up at him with those too-big-for-his-head eyes, a heartbreaking expression in them. He pawed at John's shoe.

"I'm not going anywhere!" John laughed. "We'll go home soon."

Lestrade shook his head. "Don't go all crazy-cat-lady on me, John. I used to have a cat. That was before I got a wife. They take over your life."

John grinned at him. "Honestly, how much more different will it be? The only difference is that now he can't wield a gun."

Lestrade shrugged. "I'll see you tomorrow. Don't forget to take his clothes, otherwise he'll never forgive you."

John nodded, and watched Lestrade leave, before turning his attention back to the fuzz-ball at his feel, who was now rolling on his back, paws in the air, and gazing up at John. John felt his heart swell a little.

He crouched back down, and bundled the tiny kitten into his jacket, and held him there with one hand, whilst hastily scooping Sherlock's clothes up. Sherlock gave a tiny squeak as John squeezed him too tightly.

"Sorry," John muttered, as he walked out of the alley, trying to ignore the intense warmth now pressed against his chest.

They arrived back in 221B, but in that time, it had started to rain. John was sufficiently damp, and Sherlock, who had snuffled as the rain hit him, had retreated further into John's chest.

"We're home," John told him, pulling out his key and opening the front door without allowing any of Sherlock's clothes to drop. He had certainly gained a few strange looks in the fifteen minute walk home. What must people have thought about the short man with a cat in his coat, carrying another man's clothes?

Inside was warm and cozy, and John sighed. A cup of tea was definitely needed, and maybe a bath. It had been a long day. John headed straight to their living room, and placed Sherlock on the sofa. He was very conscious of the feline's eyes following him to the kitchen, and heard the loud "Meeeooow" as he disappeared from view.

"I'm still here, Sherlock," called John, as he set the kettle to boil, and dumped Sherlock's clothes on the nearest available surface. He would have to go buy cat formula, as it seemed Sherlock was far too young to be eating dry cat food. _There _was a sentence John thought he'd never have to think. As for now, the milk they had in the fridge would have to do, even if it wasn't perfect. As the kettle was boiling, John got down his first aid kit from the top cupboard and rummaged around, searching for the syringe used for administering liquid medicines to babies. It would do.

When the kettle had boiled, and John's tea was brewing, he poked his head round to see if Sherlock had managed to get stuck behind the sofa yet. In fact, Sherlock was looking off the edge of the sofa, preparing to jump, but not gathering the courage to actually push himself off. For such a tiny creature, the distance from the seat to the floor must have been considerable.

"Come here, you little thing," John muttered scooping Sherlock up around his middle, watching his dainty paws scrabble for a surface in the air. "I figure you need to eat regularly. We can't have you getting all skinny. The other cats will laugh at you."

John pushed some of Sherlock's chemistry glassware away to form a space on the table, and plonked Sherlock down there, giving him a pat on his soft head. Sherlock shied away from the touch grumpily.

John returned to the syringe, and sucked in some milk from the carton, hoping it wouldn't be too cold. He then prepared his tea, and sat down opposite the kitten.

"You're much cuter like this, you know," John told him, reaching with a finger to scratch Sherlock under the chin. "Why can't you always be so compliant, hmm?"

Sherlock did nothing, but closed his eyes and tilted his head for John to reach round near his ears, and John chuckled.

"Here, see if you like this. If not, I'm sure I can puree those chicken kidneys you keep in the freezer." At this, Sherlock's ears perked up, and he gave a loud "Mew!"

"Well, I'll need to defrost them fir- wait, hang on! I thought you couldn't understand me?" John asked incredulously, scraping his chair back so he could rest his chin on the table top, and to be level with Sherlock.

The cat gave him a disparaging look, and mewed again.

"So when you didn't respond to Lestrade, that was just you being antisocial, was it?" John asked, not quite believing he was having a conversation with a cat.

"Meow," Sherlock said, as if that cleared everything up.

"So you _do _understand me?" John clarified.

Sherlock nodded his head, and rested a small paw on John's nose.

"Well, we'll, uh, try and turn you back as soon as possible," John cleared his throat.

Sherlock stared at him for a few more seconds before he promptly fell sideways, and rolled onto his back, his paws lolling either side of him. John couldn't help himself and started tickling Sherlock on his stomach, causing the little kitten to squirm around delightedly.

"How did this happen, hm?" John asked the room at large. "On minute I'm sharing a flat with a consulting detective, the next I'm sharing a flat with a cat who understands me. What is my life?"

Sherlock gave no response, but started chewing on John's fingers.

"Hey! No need to bite!" John retracted his hand. "If you're hungry, you can have this."

John indicated the fat syringe full of milk on the table, and Sherlock bounded over to it. John, remembering briefly how Harry had fed that abandoned kitten when they were young, picked Sherlock up and held him in his hand, with the milk in the other.

"Meeeow," Sherlock complained, as John held on tighter.

"Yes, yes, I'm doing it!" John muttered, and carefully put the syringe in Sherlock's mouth, pushing on the end slightly so that the milk came out slowly.

Sherlock immediately started gulping it down, his tiny tongue pressed against the plastic. John refrained from "aaw"ing out loud, fearing for his fingers. But it truly was very endearing. His fur was very soft against John's hands, and his paws were so miniscule, John found it hard to imagine them holding any weight up.

Sherlock finished his "meal" quite quickly, and proceeded to lick his mouth, as John looked down at the cat, smiling. Maybe when Sherlock turned back, _if _he turned back, he could persuade him to get a kitten.

"Are you still hungry?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, as he started to lick his paw carefully.

"I'll go defrost those kidneys for you then," John said, and placed Sherlock back on the table.

At that point, a ringing came from the pile of Sherlock's clothes. John rifled inside the jacket until he had found Sherlock's phone, and saw that it was Molly from the morgue.

"Hello?" He answered.

"John? Is Sherlock there?" Molly replied.

"Umm," John stalled, looking over at Sherlock who was now licking his paw and wiping it over his head, and felt his throat constrict a little. "He's engaged at the moment. Can I help?"

"Well, he said to notify him as soon as the pickled pigs' heads came in. Do you want me to drop them round?"

"P-pickled pigs' h—no it's fine Molly," John said exasperatedly. "I need to go out tomorrow anyway, so I'll come round then."

"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow then, John," Molly said.

"Actually, wait a second Molly, you have a cat, don't you?" John asked.

"Yes," Molly responded slowly.

"Well, I'm, uh, cat-sitting for a friend, and I need some supplies. Things to keep him interested and not destroy the furniture. Also food and stuff. Any suggestions?"

"Did the, ahem, _owner_ not give you anything?" Molly asked, and John could hear her amusement. She didn't believe his cat-sitting lie.

"No, it was rather last minute," John said dryly, looking at Sherlock, who paused his cleaning ritual long enough to give John a reproachful look.

"Oh, well, I have lots of spare things you can take, like toys. Food, you can buy in supermarkets. You'll need a litter tray. That's all the essentials. You're free to take what I have, I'm always restocking. I'll bring some stuff tomorrow." Molly listed.

"Thanks, Molly, you're a lifesaver," John said gratefully. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Have a good evening!" Molly replied cheerfully. "Have fun with your...cat."

John resisted the urge to yell down the phone "I'm not gay!" as she hung up. Honestly, a guy gets a cat, and everyone thinks he's a repressed homosexual! And it was rich coming from Molly, who the last guy she dated was actually (probably) gay. John smiled inwardly at the thought.

Shaking his head irritably, he pulled out the frozen chicken kidneys out of the freezer, and left them in the sink to defrost. He then scooped up Sherlock, gaining a startled "Mew!" and walked into the living room, to watch some crap telly.


	3. Chapter 3

Once again, I don't own this chapter. Thanks to MildredTheFreak for letting me use it.

o0o0o

"See, Sherlock, this is what _normal _flatmates do," John said, patting Sherlock's head and earning a glare in return, as he flopped onto the sofa, and turned on the TV.

Sherlock would have rolled his eyes, John was sure, but didn't jump away. Instead he curled up on John's chest and closed his eyes. John's breath hitched in his throat, as he gazed down at the bundle of fluff that he could feel breathing deeply on his chest. For a man who spent most of his life single and away from home, John really was a sucker for domesticity.

He started flicking through channels, which caught Sherlock's attention, and he opened one bright blue eye, gazing up at John, before swiveling it to the television.

"Isn't this nice, Sherlock? No murderous serial killers, a good cup of tea, and two...no, three back to back episodes of House. This is the life," John joked, as he stretched out on the sofa.

As John half watched the TV, his hand reached up and started petting Sherlock on his head, to encourage him to fall asleep. So he almost jumped when he heard a trilling purr come from the kitten, and looked down stare incredulously at his fluffy flatmate who was making the most contented of noises.

The purring abruptly stopped as John stilled, and Sherlock opened his eyes to glare at John, and nudged his head against John's stationary hand. He quickly resumed the petting, which seemed to pacify Sherlock, who quickly dozed off again.

And it wasn't soon until John did too, his hand wrapped possessively around the kitten.

When the sunlight, which filtered through the wide windows, hit John's face, he awoke. Groaning, and rolling his shoulders, he sat up and stretched. He had fallen asleep on the sofa- again- and now he was going to pay for it at work with a sore back.

Checking his watch, he saw he had an hour to get to work, which was fine. The number of times he had forgotten to set an alarm and had been late. It was then that John remembered _why _he had fallen asleep on the sofa, and started when he realized no black ball of fur was present anywhere near.

"Sherlock!" he cried, jumping up, checking that he hadn't squished the animal in the night.

"Mew," came the quiet reply from near the window, and John looked around to see Sherlock sitting on the windowsill, his eyes trained directly on a small back fly that was bobbing against the glass.

"Oh, thank god," John breathed, letting himself relax. "I'm going to have breakfast. Do you want those pureed kidneys?"

"Me...ow," Sherlock dismissed, coiling up on his hind legs, his eyes not leaving the fly.

"Alright," John replied, still unsure if he was totally sane.

At that moment, Sherlock pounced, paws outstretched towards the insect. He hit the window with his head, and fell backwards onto the floor, _not _landing on his feet, the breath leaving him with a _whoosh _accompanied by a terrified squeak.

There was a beat, where John gaped at the fallen cat, before he burst out laughing. Sherlock huffed, aggravated, and picked himself up, stalking past John and into the kitchen.

"Aaw, don't sulk!" John said through his giggles. "That was amusing; even you have to admit it."

He got no response from the irritated Sherlock.

"I'm not laughing _at _you, I'm laughing _with _you," John continued, as he followed Sherlock into the kitchen, retrieved the kidneys from the sink from the night before, and unwrapped them, before dumping them in the blender.

Sherlock gazed up at him reproachfully from the floor, but his attention was pulled quickly enough to the smell of chicken kidneys.

Meanwhile, John set about making himself a cup of tea, whistling tunelessly. Overall, he was in a bit of a predicament. He now had to go to work, leaving Sherlock at home for eight hours. He could allow the kitten to go outside, but he wouldn't be able to live with himself if Sherlock got hit by a car or attacked by another animal.

"Are you okay to entertain yourself for today?" John asked him, as his tea was brewing and as he scraped kidney mush into a bowl.

Sherlock just looked at him, which John took to be an affirmative.

"I'll bring you lots of things to do, but I won't be home until evening," John told him. There was definitely a pouty look about Sherlock, even if he didn't have any definitive lips. "Just don't hurt yourself. And don't destroy anything."

When the kitten did not respond, but managed to give him a condescending look, John picked him up and put him on the kitchen table, sitting down with his tea and the bowl with "breakfast" in it.

"Here you go," John said, dabbing a little mush onto his finger and offering it to Sherlock. "Not particularly appealing to me, but tell me what you think."

Sherlock approached the finger and sniffed it, before licking it. John found himself chuckling at the sensation.

"What?" he asked Sherlock, who had stopped to give him a look. "I have ...tickly fingers."

If a cat could have rolled its eyes, Sherlock would have been right now. But John ignored this, and put more kidney mush onto this fingertip for Sherlock to eat off. He took a gulp of his tea, and tried not to think about what he would write in his blog (_Flatmate is eating food off of my skin _did not sound like a good start), but again, the feel of a rough little tongue wrapping around the end of his finger made him start to snicker again. Sherlock huffed in annoyance again, and started chewing on said finger, as if to tell John to shut up.

This continued until Sherlock had had enough, and curled up into a ball, and started grooming himself again. John had spent most of the time watching Sherlock, whilst thinking about how on earth they were going to get him back to normal. Although, and John had to admit it, he was kind of enjoying having Sherlock as a kitten. He had always been a sucker for cute things, and Sherlock was ticking all of the boxes.

"Right," John said, standing up. "I'm going to get changed, and then I'm going to work. Please, _please _don't do anything bad."

"Mew," Sherlock squeaked, giving John a wide eyed stare. John recognized the stare. It was his _John-don't-go-stay-with-me-it-could-be-dangerous _stare, that he often gave him when he was about to go on a date, or go do something without his flatmate.

"Oh no," John wasn't falling for it. "Just because you've got a tail and are covered in fur does _not _mean I'm missing a day off work. Maybe, if you're lucky, Lestrade might come in to see if he wasn't hallucinating last night. I suggest you try and communicate with him, as he's your best chance to be changed back."

Sherlock said nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

Starting from this chapter, I own the writing. (Still don't own Sherlock, though. Damn!)

"I don't really expect you to be happy in your-" The man glanced at John, eying him up and down- "current state of affairs, but I _do _hope you will be comfortable in the meantime."

John didn't say anything besides "mmmph!" because of the large towel around the lower half of his face. He glared at the man in front of him. The taxi driver he'd told to go to the surgery had instead driven him to god knows where, pushed a gun in his back and told him to keep walking if he valued his life. This had found John strapped to a chair with something he thought was probably wire, and a gag around his mouth fashioned from a towel that smelled rather like it once belonged to one of those old ladies that kept cats.

"What was that?" Moriarty asked, grinning. "Oh, I forgot! You can't talk. Here, let me just... fix that for you..." John stared daggers at Moriarty, yelling into the towel, tears beginning to pool in his eyes. Moriarty just raised his eyebrows and sliced it off as John was yelling.

"-and you have a fat chance of finding him if_ he's a cat!" _John shouted the second half of his sentence, glaring at Moriarty.

Moriarty blinked. "What?"

"Sherlock's a _bloody cat_!" John yelled again, eyes wide with fury.

"Oh dear, that's not good at all, is it? He'll be so weak and... defenseless." He grinned.

"But you don't try to kill Sherlock just to _kill _him," John reasoned quickly, thinking fast and hoping Moriarty wouldn't recognize he was trying to save Sherlock. "You kill him because you like to- what was the phrase? Oh yes- you like to 'watch him_ dance_.'"

"True," Moriarty said, looking thoughtfully at John. "I suppose it would be rather boring if I just _killed _him, wouldn't it?

"Yes, it would," John agreed.

Moriarty frowned for a minute before turning to John again. "You wouldn't happen to know _how _he was... er... transformed?" His left eyebrow raised up.

John sighed. "I don't know much, other than it was by a magician by the name of Douglas Collins. I'm not sure how it happened, but... well, now Sherlock's a cat." _Great description, John, you _really _showed him, _a voice said to John. ..._shut up_.

"Can he understand you when you're speaking?"

"Oh, yes. He understands perfectly. He just can't talk."

"I see. I suppose we'll have to change him back, then, won't we?"

"Yes, I think we will."

The both of them remained silent in the room for a full ten seconds, thinking, then-

"D'you think you could let me out of this chair?"

"What? Oh, of course."

::::

The flat was boring.

Boring boring boring.

With no John, there was quite literally nothing to do. Sherlock glanced at a spider on the wall, thought about chasing it, then decided against.

The door opened with a _BANG. _Sherlock jumped about four feet in the air and whirled around to see Lestrade towering above him.

"Er... Lestrade?" he tried to ask, hoping the Detective Inspector would understand. Unfortunately, he didn't.

"Sherlock, is that really you?"

Sherlock nodded his head. Lestrade paled, then sat down on the couch. Sherlock jumped up to the back rest so he was at eye level with Lestrade. "Shit. I, uh, well... I've got some news you might not want to hear, Sherlock."

When the kitten did nothing but tilt his head to one side, Lestrade continued. "It's about John-" Sherlock's ears perked up and he stared intently at Lestrade. "Hold on, hold on! I also have some, uh, news about your brother." Sherlock batted a paw as if to say, _ I could care much less about my brother. Tell me more about John! _Lestrade grimaced and ran a hand through his hair.

"No, you'll want to hear this." If a kitten could raise one eyebrow, Sherlock would be doing so. "See, your brother was on a plane this morning, a plane that was due to arrive at 7:43 AM in America." Lestrade paused a moment. "The plane exploded." Sherlock stared blankly at Lestrade, not fully understanding the meaning of the words.

"Mycroft's gone, Sherlock. I-I'm sorry." Sherlock blinked, understanding, then jumped down onto the couch cushions and curled up into a ball, his head underneath his paws and his tail curled around himself.

"I... I have other news about John, if you'd like to hear it," Lestrade offered. Sherlock's tail twitched to say, _yes, please, what is it? _"He's been captured by Moriarty." At this piece of information, Sherlock's head popped up. "We don't know when, where, why, or how it happened, but... John's been taken." Sherlock looked furious. His brother was dead, his flatmate was kidnapped, and he was a _bloody cat._

What else could go wrong?


	5. Chapter 5

Uh… for our purposes, we'll assume this is post-TGG and Lestrade knows who Moriarty is.

o0o0o

Lestrade had decided to stay with Sherlock for the time being, or at least overnight. It probably wasn't a good idea to leave Sherlock alone in the first place, let alone a kitten-Sherlock. Ugh. Said kitten was currently _inside _the skull that had somehow migrated over to the couch. Lestrade looked tiredly down to see that, thankfully, it was asleep. He dug his dingers into his eyes and rubbed, yawning.

A knock on the door broke both of them from their reveries.

"...shit, lost my key again." Lestrade jumped up. _John!_

"John?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yeah, it's me. Uh, can you let me in?" John's voice sounded tired.

"Sure. Hold on a sec..." Lestrade ran to the door and opened it, preparing for a tired John with a bad attitude.

What he saw was a tired John with a bad attitude _and _a smiling... _Moriarty?_

"...you- you-" Lestrade stuttered, but John just walked inside and over to the skull (honestly, how did he know?), tipping it upside down and catching the kitten in one hand.

Sherlock opened one eye blearily.

"Sherlock, it's me-" The cat let out a yowl, eyes widening comically. "Sherlock- Sherlock, CALM DOWN!" John roared. Behind him, Moriarty was sniggering and Lestrade looked like he was about to pass out. "Lestrade, sit down." When he was met with a blank stare, John continued. "What? You're exhausted."

"How-"

"You've been babysitting Sherlock for the entire time I was gone; of course you're tired." John said irritated. He then held Sherlock with both hands, each under one arm so his hind legs swung uselessly in the air. "See, Jim? Wasn't bluffing."

"Well then. This _is _interesting, isn't it?" Mori said, stepping closer and bending down so he could view Sherlock properly. Sherlock hissed and swiped at him with his (miniscule) paws. Mori giggled. "How did it happen?" His eyes flicked up towards John, who sighed, setting Sherlock down.

"We were chasing someone, a magician, and Sherlock chased him into an alley. The next thing we knew, the alley was full of red smoke and we found Sherlock under a pile of his clothes." Mori blinked. "Douglas was gone. Sherlock was a cat. I decided the best thing to do would be to bring him home."

"Really?"

"Yup."

"Well, that's a bit of a problem."

"Yeah, yeah it is," John agreed.

An awkward silence followed in which Lestrade slept, and John and Mori both stared at Sherlock, who was drawing a pattern on the couch with his claws.

Then Mori paled.

"Er... you all right?"

Mori had two seconds to push Lestrade's chair over ("What the bloody hell-"), grab John on the back of the shirt, leap to the ground and bellow, "EVERYONE STAY DOWN!" ("Sherl-"), before the bomb went off and the flat exploded.

John's head felt very heavy.

"What the _hell _were you _thinking?_" Lestrade screamed.

"Sorry! I forgot I planted one here!"

John opened his eyes slowly. _What the-?_

"How could you _forget?_"

"I had a lot of things on my mind, all right?"

_What just happened? A bomb?_

"Oh yeah? Like _what?_"

"Like my nemesis being turned into a _cat, _maybe?"

_Oh god, Sherlock! _John tore the couch cushions off, searching frantically and shouting Sherlock's name.

"I don't see why you'd care."

"Without him, I don't have any fun!"

_I bet you don't, _John thought bitterly. _And you won't, if we don't _find _him soon!_

"You set us up!"

"I did not!"

No Sherlock in the couch. _Dammit, where _is _he? _John began tearing the room apart.

"You lured John back here somehow; I bet you had a plan!"

"I did not! I completely forgot I'd planted one here! I was going to make John be my new voice and have Sherlock solve my new mystery before the timer ran out but-"

_For heaven's sake, just shut _up_! _He ran into the kitchen, searching the fridge (What? the _fridge?_) before deciding it was a stupid idea and returning to yelling for Sherlock and searching the floor.

"You _fucking liar!_" Lestrade yelled, pointing a finger at Mori, who scoffed.

"For the last time, Les,-"

"Don't call me that."

"- I _didn't _plan for this! Well, I did plan the bomb but how was I supposed to know about Sherlock-"

There was a pause. Lestrade and Mori both looked to their side. John was tearing apart the destroyed flat frantically, looking for-

"_Sherlock!_"


	6. Chapter 6

Sorry for the awful cliffhanger…oh wait, I'm not :3

o0o0o

_**Two Months Later**_

The streets were wet and cold. He could feel every individual stone and pebble underneath his feet. Ugh. He hadn't eaten in days, but then again, he didn't eat much anyways. It was Wednesday. He'd be all right for a while.

Glancing up, he could see the foreboding door in front of him, which he certainly couldn't open by himself. He smirked at the thought. He looked to his side, at the railings by the steps, wondering how to get in. Launching himself by his back legs, he practically flew into the railing. Looking at the side of the building, he now had a nice view of the window, which gave him considerably more of an opportunity to attract attention. Although... The doorbell would work quite nicely-

The door swung open, revealing John. He yowled loudly, and John jumped about two feet in the air.

"Bloody hell!" John bent down to examine the cat. It was an adult cat, much larger than a kitten. The cat's fur was a very dark blue, almost black color, save for the front left paw, which was strikingly white. Its pale blue eyes were gazing up at him reproachfully. John blinked. _What the hell? _The cat cocked its head to one side. John reached out towards it. "Uh, hi?" He said awkwardly. The cat blinked again, then leaped off the railing and strode confidently into the flat, its tail held high.

"Sure, you can come in," John said sarcastically, sighing.

The cat looked over its shoulder and narrowed its eyes, then turned back and jumped onto the couch. John shut the door, forgetting why he opened it in the first place (to get some more milk), and walked over to the cat, which was now laid down on the couch, on top of Sherlock's old coat. (He still hadn't gotten rid of it after Sherlock had died in the explosion two months ago.) John began thinking.

"You know," he began thoughtfully, stroking the cat absently, "You remind me of someone I once knew." The cat's ears perked up. "He was my flatmate, but..." John trailed off grinning. "When he died, he was more like you than me. It was an explosion, you see. I still have his coat. You're sitting on it." The cat sneezed. "Bless you. Anyways, we lost him, you see, and we never saw him again." The cat looked at John expectantly. "I guess he _could _be still alive somewhere, but I highly..." The cat's light blue eyes bore into John's skull. "Doubt..." The twinkle was unmistakable now. "That..." The cat rustled around in the coat for a moment before pulling out a long navy blue scarf and holding it up in front of John.

"_Sherlock!_"

Lestrade was sitting in his office, staring at a computer screen. Mori appeared from around the corner and waved. Les waved his hand distractedly.

"Good _morning_, Lestrade!" He chirped.

"Hello, Jim," Lestrade replied tiredly.

"How are you?" Mori piped, cheery as ever.

"Not too well, thank you for asking," Lestrade snapped.

"Oh, don't be such a tosser. I have something you might like to kno-ow..." Mori sang, trailing off at the end and grinning as he leaned on the side of the wall.

"What-" but before Lestrade could finish his question, the door burst open with a _BANG _and John came barreling through, carrying something.

"Lestrade! Mori! Guys, I found him!" John held out the loose bundle in his arms, which revealed to be-

"Sherlock?" Mori exclaimed.

"The hell?"

"I don't know where he's been; he just appeared at my door this morning!" John beamed at them. Mori smiled, and Lestrade just looked confused. "If I knew where he was, I could probably change him back, but-"

"Would you like to see? I can show you," the cat offered, taking a paw and washing his face.

Everyone stared.

"I'll explain everything on the way, just follow me," it said, leaping out of John's arms and exiting the room. Lestrade, Mori, and John all stood, looking at each other, for a full three seconds.

"Are you coming, or what?" the cat said, poking its head around the door and looking impatient.


	7. Chapter 7

So… I had honestly given up on this story. I kind of forgot about it for a long time, not intending to continue. But I recently got a reviewer who inspired me to continue, so I'll probably be working on this story. Thank you, Mazz84!

ONWARDS!

0o0o0

"So," John began, walking briskly behind Sherlock. He didn't respond. "You can talk now?"

"Obviously," Sherlock and Moriarty muttered at the same time.

"_How?_"

Sherlock just let out an "I don't know" noise and kept trotting forward, down the sidewalk. John thought briefly how odd it must seem; three grown men having a conversation with a cat, who is leading them down the street.

"Here we are," Sherlock announced. John, Lestrade, and Moriarty looked up from the cat to see a long black car. John's stomach clenched. He knew of Mycroft's death, of course. Sherlock must have inherited… his car. Sherlock lifted one paw and rapped on the door in a rhythm John recognized, but couldn't quite place. The door opened, and Sherlock leapt neatly into the car.

John followed.

0o0o0

"Stop," Sherlock said, once they'd been riding in awkward silence filled with glares between Sherlock and Moriarty for about thirteen minutes.

The cab slowed to a halt, and Sherlock pawed at the door, trying to get it open. John sniggered and pulled the handle, releasing it with a small _'click'_. Sherlock sniffed, leaping out and trotting away with his tail held high. Moriarty snorted.

"Come on," Sherlock called. "Hurry up!" The tree men obediently clambered out of the car, and walked over to Sherlock. "Look, I don't want to be late."

"Late for what?" Lestrade frowned in confusion.

"You'll see."

The cat led the three men into a large building; an office of some sort. John opened the door for Sherlock again (with Lestrade fighting back a laugh behind him), and they walked down a narrow hallway, turning sharply to the left.

John stopped short at the sight of the man in front of him. Lestrade bumped into him, emitting a loud "oof!". Moriarty stopped, curious.

"Hello, John," Mycroft Holmes said amiably, reaching down to pick up Sherlock from the floor.


End file.
